


Be Good for Me

by starberby



Category: Benjaminutes - Fandom, The Riftdale Chronicles (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Adult Situations, Bad Ending, Character Study, Eloping, Forbidden Romance, M/M, Morality, Toxicity, by which i mean i hope it kills you, hope you like it, i love christian's desperation, if you can call it a romance, no oculus au, not a happy ending for their relationship so don't read if you dont want that, then they just fight idk, they basically hate themselves then hate each other then kiss, uh blasphemy bc christian is in it, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 16:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starberby/pseuds/starberby
Summary: “Christian didn’t ask to be cared about, for it to matter to anyone whether or not he ate, slept, or showered. He didn’t want to be held through the night, amidst both nightmares and waking breakdowns. Christian didn’t leave himself open to feelings—he didn’t realize his heart was fertile ground for them. However, Chief found that shrivelled organ and smashed his way into it like he was orchestrating a police raid. He sloughed through the muck inside and carved out space for himself to fit. No, Christian didn’t fall in love on purpose—he was coerced into it.However it came about, though, the love manifested and there was no going back. And, as Christian realized with horror, the pauses amidst a game were no longer enough for him. He wanted Chief wholly, to wrap around himself, to flaunt to others. Their relationship could be the one thing that wasn’t broken about him. It could be a better salvation than amnesia, if only he could convince Chief to belong to him fully.“—-in which Chief questions his ethical identity, Christian aches with longing, and things end badly. Sorry in advance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> no oculus au, the grays are here bc of weird shenanigans nobody understands and everyone’s knows christian is a criminal. also smith’s a totally fine ok boy YOU HEAR ME BEN????!?

What does it mean to be a good cop? Chief has been on the force—or at least, on *a* force, considering he’s jumped realities—for decades. He’s put in the time, filed the paperwork, and caught the criminals. He’s more than competent; he’s damn near perfect. The answer to his question should be simple. Except, “good at being a cop” doesn’t translate to “is a good cop”. The former regards skill, but the latter evokes a sense of morality. They’re trick phrases, so similar in composition that they’re mistaken for each other, yet so apart in meaning that it’s horrendous when they are. 

In that way, the word “good” is a lot like the word “love”. Love gets muddled all the time, its meaning altering depending on if you love someone or are *in* love with them. Chief loves Smith, for example, but would never be in love with him. The kid’s half his age and practically his son, “in love” is off the table. Conversely, Chief would never love someone like Christian. That hypocritical man of God, whose anger scratches Chief like lighting paper does a match, and whose cynicism acts as a cruel mirror—Chief despises that, would never love it. Never love *him*.

But is Chief in love with Christian? Oh, irrevocably. And that’s where the dilemma lies, because you can’t be a good cop while you’re literally in bed with the enemy.

“Hey, old man, come back to Earth already. You’ve been frowning at my neck, not moving, for five minutes.”

Speak of the devil. Chief is yanked back to the present by Christian snapping in his face, dispelling the brooding session. Chief shakes his head and refocuses on his situation, on Christian pinned to the motel bed underneath him, on the criminal’s continued snarking. 

“Jesus, you’d think I’d be enough to keep you occupied. What is it, are there other crooks you’re banging on the side?”

“Quit pouting.”

Before Christian can retort, Chief smothers the argument with a kiss. Christian bites Chief’s lower lip, hard, to show he’s still pissed, but he also clings to the cop, to show how badly he wants this. Chief smiles against their kiss and travels down to Christian’s neck, eliciting a happy hum from the criminal. So, yes, Chief may be on his way to becoming a bad cop. But in this, like everything, he does it excessively well. 

\---

The next morning, Christian returns to his and Bart’s current hideout. For the moment they’re sitting pretty, having broken into a long-vacant suburban home in the cleaner part of Riftdale. They haven’t been in a real house in a while, but Bart wanted somewhere comfortable to stay and, although Christian hates to admit it, the artist is less of a hostage and more of a travelling companion. Now, Bart’s tucked in a pile of blankets in an otherwise-empty living room, drawing in a sketchbook. His concentration snaps when Christian walks in. 

“You’re back late,” he says, then his brow knits. “Are you hurt? You look roughed-up.”

“Opposed to what, my usual crisp and clean appearance?” Christian cocks and eyebrow, even though his night with Chief has left him looking shoddier than usual. After adjusting his priestly collar, he decides he’s put enough effort into tidying himself up. He sits down cross-legged next to Bart, sighing when he slumps against the wall. “Gimme paper and something to write with.”

Bart lights up. “My, my, Christian, are you feeling a creative itch? I commend you; trying your hand at art is a daunting but rewarding experience! You know, crafting your own masterpieces might prove rewarding, and such a career may work out better for you than attempting to profit off of false pretences.”

“I’m not going to draw, I just need something to write with, okay? Hand over the damn supplies.”

Bart obliges, tearing a page out of his sketchbook, and Christian hunkers over the paper, thinking about where to start. He decided last night that he needs to make a plan.

He’s thought a lot, recently, about what makes a bad cop. Certainly not ability, since Chief’s wonder-boy could be replaced with an empty chapstick tube and it’d be as successful at work. (True, Smith is good at most of his job, but if not for Chief, he’d never finish a real case. The kid’s too forgiving.) Still, Christian knows that Sweet Johnny Smith is as good a cop as they come, and as he chews over this, the reason why becomes apparent. 

Like all matters, it comes down to faith. Smith has faith in everything: the criminals, the justice system, and the general goodness of the world. That’s what keeps him perkier than the women in tampon commercials. That naïveté makes him a good cop. 

Chief isn’t like that. However, even if the cop won’t admit it, he’s not completely distraught by the world, either. Christian’s listened to Chief gripe about his work, and has been st the end of countless lectures on morality. No pun intended, but Chief sees things as black and white. He believes in a difference between good and evil, and that’s what’s kept him on the force for so long. That a man his age still has fairytale ideals is adorable, but Chief will never be a bad cop if that belief remains intact. 

Why does this matter, exactly? Christian wishes it didn’t. Since he and Chief started seeing each other, it was on the premise that time together “didn’t count”. They pressed pause on their cops-and-robbers game every time they met in shadowed corners. They timed-out for nights in motel rooms, and any place away from view of the world was no-man’s land. This system was painless, and easy. And because it involved Christian, it was fated to have flaws. 

The problem, it turned out, was love. Christian swears he doesn’t love Chief—it’s despicable how the law has him on a leash, how he’s so broken yet has the luxury of functioning in upstanding society. He’s what Christian could have been if Christian wasn’t so. . . so *himself*, and it’s detestable. No, Christian doesn’t love Chief. 

However, is Christian in love with Chief? Oh, disastrously. And it’s all Chief’s fault. 

Christian didn’t ask to be cared about, for it to matter to anyone whether or not he ate, slept, or showered. He didn’t want to be held through the night, amidst both nightmares and waking breakdowns. Christian didn’t leave himself open to feelings—he didn’t realize his heart was fertile ground for them. However, Chief found that shrivelled organ and smashed his way into it like he was orchestrating a police raid. He sloughed through the muck inside and carved out space for himself to fit. No, Christian didn’t fall in love on purpose—he was coerced into it. 

However it came about, though, the love manifested and there was no going back. And, as Christian realized with horror, the pauses amidst a game were no longer enough for him. He wanted Chief wholly, to wrap around himself, to flaunt to others. Their relationship could be the one thing that wasn’t broken about him. It could be a better salvation than amnesia, if only he could convince Chief to belong to him fully. 

Christian started thinking of the semantics last night, while the cop slept and the criminal’s head buzzed like a disturbed wasp’s nest. The moon was relaxing across the length of their bed, and Christian noticed that, within the glow, everything looked monochrome. Chief was at home in this moonlit world, but that wasn’t the only thing. Christian was, too. He had already dressed in clothes again, in case he needed to flee quickly, and his blacks and whites fit perfectly into the palette. The two men looked like they came from the same place, and shared the same space in the world now. 

Christian wanted Chief like others want an organ transplant, and he understood now that the only way to get that was to make them look like this all the time. He had to reshape Chief to fit the same space Christian himself did.

So now he scribbled ideas on paper, hoping that getting the ambition out of his head will help it coalesce into something real. He has to find a way to make Chief a bad cop. 

\---

Chief has to find a way to make himself a good cop. He’s lost sight of what’s important, as if Christian’s presence has effected a second-hand haze. Now, though, Chief wants to refocus. He needs to do his job, help people, and pay restitution for his past. That last point he doesn’t speak of openly, but it’s what drove him to join the force in the first place. He knows he’s not a good cop, because good cops don’t need to make up for deeds they committed while young. Still, he has hope for himself. He doesn’t hassle with religion the way Christian does, but he recognizes that the universe has some form of retribution. He’s made mistakes before, and the only way to avoid pain because of them is to pay the world back willingly. 

Maybe that’s his problem. Maybe you can only be a good cop if your slate’s clean. Chief has done his best for years, though, and that has to count for something. That’s what he tells himself whenever Christian’s cynicism sounds too close to the voices in his own head. He’s not like the crook, because even when he can’t believe in redemption the way Smith does, he hangs onto the hope that trying to be good is worth more than relinquishing to evil. If there’s no difference, after all, what’s the point in trying—in living? He explains this to Christian when he can, but the criminal never meets his gaze during those types of conversation. Still, it has to be said. Somebody has to be the optimistic one in their relationship. 

As if summoned, Smith skips into the precinct, toting a smile and two coffees. He bounds towards his partner and hands over a cup. 

“Good morning, Chief!”

“Morning.” Chief nods, taking a sip. 

“Nice outfit.”

This earns a side-eye from Chief. “Thanks,” he says measuredly, “it’s the same one I always wear.”

“No, no, your pants are different.”

“They really aren’t. Why the hell would my pants be different, Smith, I’ve bought the same slacks for years—“ Chief looks down, and stops mid-sentence. The pants totally are different. 

This is not good. 

As he realizes this, Susan walks by, stopping to smile at their antics. “What’s going on? Are my two favourite monochrome men having a fight?”

Smith nods towards the offending garments. “Chief’s trying to say he isn’t wearing new pants, which is ridiculous. You don’t need to be shy about trying out a new look, Chief. It’s funky!”

“Funky?” Susan snorts, wrinkling her nose in that cute way of hers. “Those pants look exactly the same.”

Chief sighs. “Thank you.”

“No! Ah, Susan, you can’t see it because your eyesight has been spoiled by all of your reality’s crazy colours. If you were used to discerning hues based on their grayscale, you’d understand. Chief always wears plain, black slacks, but this pair is different. They’re kind-of dusty, almost a dark gray. It’s a *huge* change.”

Susan squints. “Maybe . . . .”

“This is a waste of time,” Chief interrupts. “Do you want me to admit they’re different pants? Fine, they’re different pants. I forgot to do laundry and I found this pair in the back of my closet. Happy now?”

“Relax, Chief. I was only trying to compliment you.”

He huffs. “Whatever. Let’s get to work.”

Throughout the day, though, Chief can’t stop thinking about his pants—Christian’s pants, more accurately. Christian dressed and left in the morning before Chief, and either didn’t notice he took the wrong clothes, or (more likely) didn’t care. Chief had no time to run home before his shift, so he put on the criminal’s pants and hoped nobody would notice. Evidently, they did. 

It’s not like Smith or Susan suspect anything, but the interaction has Chief on edge. He can’t get found out, engaging with a criminal like this. He and Christian need to be more careful. 

Chief sighs and drains the last of his coffee before starting work. He’ll bring it up with Christian the next chance he gets. 

\---

Christian will bring it up with Chief the next chance he gets. Not the full-fledged, “I ache for you so badly, I’m mistaking it for overdose symptoms,” gushy mess of his affections (besides, that overdose thing happened once. *Once*), but he’ll suggest that he and the cop could be more together. It’ll be enough of a nudge to get Chief thinking, and hopefully realizing all the ways he doesn’t fit into his current life. Over time, he’ll feel the same way Christian does. He’ll want a way out. 

Christian breaks into Chief’s apartment, which is what he does whenever he wants to see the cop but feels like texting him is too needy. Showing up unannounced is volatile, a wild-card action, which he believes looks calmer than asking permission to show up. He’s lounging on a love-seat when Chief comes home from work. 

“Good evening, officer.”

“Jesus!” Chief starts, then grits his teeth, realizing who it is. “You need to stop doing this.”

“You say that about a lot of the things I do. Come here.”

The cop obliges, setting his jacket and keys on the coffee table before leaning down to kiss Christian, more chastely than the criminal would prefer. He pulls away, brushing under his nose with his hand and scowling. “What have you been doing? You’re covered in cocaine.”

Christian deadpans, “I thought cops liked powdered doughnuts.” This earns him dead-eyed silence. “Okay, that was a shitty line. So fight me.”

“I really should. Did you notice that you stole my pants? I had to wear your pair into work, and it got a lot of unwanted attention.”

Ugh. Christian had vaguely noticed what happened, and hoped that Chief wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. They’re pants, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like Chief accidentally went to work with coke in his pocket. Probably. 

“Alright then.” Christian fingered one of Chief’s belt loops lazily. “The pants are a problem. So take them off.”

This statement earns a more favourable response from the cop. The two men perform that clumsy lovers’ dance towards the bedroom, with Christian eventually flopping onto the bed to watch Chief take off his shirt. The cop unbuttons his top the way other people pry open alligator’s jaws. Christian loves it. 

And it just slips out, like a helium balloon bobbing up to the ceiling: “Run away with me.”

Chief freezes, confused. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” 

They’ve been together long enough that Chief knows that’s not true. He stares the criminal down until he breaks, which, to Christian’s credit, takes a while. 

“Jesus! Fine, fine.” Christian throws up his hands and stares at the ceiling, trying to find a way to repeat himself and sound nonchalant. It comes out with a puff of air, all sarcastic and self-deprecating. “I said, ‘Run away with me.’” 

Yikes. It’s even worse, the second time. He watches Chief warily, wondering what emotions hide behind his stoic face. Then, that fucker, he snickers. *Snickers*! Christian sits up, fists clenching in the bedsheets. Chief shakes his head, smiling, and rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m sorry—God, really. Run away with you, it’s just—you’re not the type I’d expect to ask to elope. Did I switch realities again, without noticing?“

“Sure, it sounds ridiculous when you talk about it like that! Psh, *eloping*. I’m not asking you to marry me, dumbass. I’m just saying, it would be better to get away from here. No cops on my tail, and no higher-ups breathing down your neck. We could disappear, to where nobody would know us, where we can start new. I wouldn’t be a criminal, and you wouldn’t be an alternate-reality outsider. We’d be happy.”

Chief, realizing the seriousness of the suggestion, has gone straight-faced again. Or, rather, he’s gone wrinkled, frowning in a way that makes Christian feel like he’s holding onto an untethered rope. Chief shakes his head. 

“If a move was all it took to rid yourself of your past, wouldn’t you have done it by now?”

“It’s different, on my own. With you there, to ground me—“

“And what about other people? Even if you move on from your past, others can’t do easily. You’re a criminal, remember.”

“We’ll go somewhere remote, up North, then. The sun’s gone all Winter pretty much, anyway. Even if there’s people around, they won’t be able to see you—“

“And what about Bart?”

“I’ll set him free. He’s a hostage, remember? He’ll be sad to see me go but he’ll get over it.”

“And Smith?”

Christian sputters. “Smith? Your wonder-boy’s an incompetent cop on his own. Even though he’ll know you’re missing, he won’t be able to follow our trail.”

Chief glowers. “Smith’s a good cop. And that’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t just leave him,  
especially when I’m the only reason he’s on the force.”

“But the precinct loves him, now! They’d keep him around, at least as a mascot. Like one of those inbred spotty whatsits—Dalmatians.”

Chief snarls, “Don’t compare my *boy* to a *dog*, Priest.”

Christian bites his lip. Chief stares at him for a few painful moments before turning away.

“It would never work, Christian. I’m sure you know that, deep down. It’s best you forget the whole idea.” He starts buttoning up his shirt. “Now give me my damn pants back and get out of my apartment.”

Christian does, without a word said between the two of them. Once he’s gone, swinging the apartment door shut behind him with more force than necessary, Chief falls onto the couch and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. He wants to forget about the exchange—Christian’s a difficult person, Chief’s not great himself, and arguments are to be expected, no big deal—but Christian asked Chief to *leave*with him. It’s not something the cop would have expected ever, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. 

Of course, his first reaction was to fight it. Chief likes his life the way it is—doesn’t he? Police work provides purpose, and the precinct is friendly. Chief wants to be a good cop. He wants to be good, period; he wants to be okay with himself and the world around him. He wants to cultivate comfort for Riftdale, and he hopes that through it, he’ll find peace for himself. 

So why is he trying to fit Christian into this scenario?  
Chief was drawn into the relationship because he understood Christian, at his misanthropic core, and embracing that ugly side of himself felt like a release. However, good cops don’t rage at the world. Good cops haven’t given up. Chief can’t keep loving this brokenness if he wants to get better. 

Besides, even if he did leave with Christian, it wouldn’t last. The two of them are too different in areas where it counts, and too similar in ways that drive them both crazy. It wouldn’t work. It *doesn’t* work. 

Chief bites his lip, chews it, bites his cheek, bites his tongue. He has to roll this idea around his mouth, gather the taste of it,  
really understand it before he thinks one step further. Because he’s right, he and Christian don’t work together. They shouldn’t be together. 

All this time worrying over how to be a good cop, and Chief hasn’t realized the most obvious course of action: stop associating with criminals. If he wants to be the kind of man Smith imagines him to be, he needs to let go of this illicit affair. That’s the only way to fix things. 

Forget running away with Christian. Chief needs to run *from* him.


	2. Chapter 2

Christian hates himself. He wants to run away with Chief, but what is he doing now? Running *from* him. Like a common criminal, instead of the highly complex criminal he actually is. Pessimistic as he is, he never imagined Chief would flat-out refuse the offer. He has no clue what to do, now. 

He returns to the house, busting down the door and nearly Scaring Bart out of his beret. “Motherfucker!” Christian shouts, finally having an audience to his rage. He paces through the shell of a home, winding up in a bedroom with nowhere to go, Bart huddled in the doorway as a witness. He drives a fist through the drywall. “Who the hell does he think he is? Telling me it would never work, he’s the cop who’s fucking a known criminal! And he thinks my idea is too far. Fucking hypocrite!”

“Christian, I—what’s wrong?” Bart shakes, but his hands are clenched fists. Christian, who still has half his forearm embedded in the wall, growls and rips it out. He paces around the room. 

“Chief thinks I’m an idiot. Well, it’s not like I started this relationship on my own! Why get involved with me if he doesn’t see anything happening. What, is he some sort of fuckboy, now? Please.”

“I’m sorry—are you saying you’re in a relationship,” Bart gulps, “with the Chief of Police?”

“Obviously not the Chief of Police, idiot. Have you seen that tool? That would be disgusting. I’m talking about the other police Chief, the one with the cutie-pie sidekick.”

“Oh my.”

“Yeah, but he thinks running off together would be a bad idea.”

“Yes, how silly of him,” Bart mumbles sarcastically. 

“He talked down to me like I’m a child, telling me to forget it. As if I never thought it through. No, it wouldn’t be perfect, but nothing is. Doesn’t he see that we could still be good together? Doesn’t he understand how much I—oh, fuck.” Christian grabs his chest. What comes out next is a wail, “God fucking damn me to hell, I love him!”

When Christian crumples to the floor, Bart watches the self-loathing puddle moan into the hardwood, unsure how to react. Carefully, he bends down and pats the criminal ever-so-lightly on the back. 

“I love him, Bart. Nobody’s been good to me like he has. I *need*  
him, and I don’t even think he wants me.”

Bart nods sagely. “Such is the way with life.”

With this, Christian sits up, smacking Bart’s hand away. “No! I refuse it. There has to be something I can do, some way I can fix this.“

“Uh, maybe you should focus on calming down, first. Cool off a bit?”

Christian scoffs. He’s never been cool in his life. He’s either cold as a cadaver, or burning angry as hellfire. What’s the better option to approach the situation with? He has no clue. Doesn’t he know, he’s no good at these things? Words don’t work for him, and never have, so he’s better off giving up on them. He doesn’t need to tell Chief anything. He needs to show his vision if he’s going to prove it can work out. 

But how?

Well, Chief gave him a list to check off, didn’t he? The problems are: Christian’s past, Bart’s attachment, and Smith’s uncertain welfare. All Christian has to do is get those obstacles out of the way, and Chief won’t have reasons to stay. He’ll go with Christian, and learn to love him. 

“Bart!” The artist flinches when Christian turns to him. “How’d you like to be a free man, again?”

\---

Chief only wants to be a free man, again. Time with Christian is an indulgence, a respite into the darkness of himself that the rest of the world can’t see. However, now that he’s thinking about becoming the fabled good cop, time with the criminal seems like a trap more than anything. It’s relapsing into some sick abuse, and Chief’s sure it must be hurting the criminal, too. A plea to run away together—that would never come from a healthy Christian. Well, whatever the coke-addicted crook’s creation of healthy was. 

Chief promises he’ll make a move to end things after work today. Before he can get to that point, though, he has to deal with the commotion at the precinct. 

“Smith!” Susan runs up to the two gray cops as soon as they enter the building. Smith grins until he sees her expression. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I got a call from a pay phone. It’s a man, his name is Bart, he says he’s a hostage of the Priest. Thing is, he won’t tell us any more details. He refuses to talk to anybody but you.”

Chief bites his lip. Bart’s calling in? That makes no sense, as it’s a daring move, and Bart’s as daring as a baby mouse from what Christian describes. Allegedly, Bart doesn’t even mind being a hostage. On top of all that, why Smith, why only Smith?

Chief has no choice but to let his partner deal with the oddity alone. As Smith heads out of the station to deal with whatever’s going on—something Christian orchestrated, certainly—Chief tries to distract himself with desk work for the rest of the day, but there’s a film of unease that clings to his every action. Something weird is happening, even by Riftdale’s standards. He doesn’t like it. 

Smith comes back at the end of the day, his arm around the shoulders of an anxious man in a beret. The man is burritoed in a shock blanket, and Smith’s usual smile is held down by a purposeful expression. The burritoed man, who must be Bart, locks eyes with Chief and starts to shake from nerves. The cop sighs, walking over. 

“Chief, look! I rescued the Priest’s hostage!”

“That you did,” he replies, not breaking his eye contact with Bart. “How exactly did this come to pass?”

“He managed to escape for a bit and get to a pay phone, and although he didn’t have enough time to give me precise details about his location, I was able to track him and get to him before the Priest could, again.” Smith beams and Bart nods, head moving fast as a woodpecker’s. 

“It is certainly an honourable achievement. The whole precinct should learn about your, uh, wondrous deed?”

“Well, thanks!”

“Smith, do you mind if I take the ex-hostage in for questioning?” Chief puts his hands on his hips. 

“I don’t know, I’m sure Bartholomew here is quite stressed—“

“Oh, it’s fine!” The artist’s voice is an octave to high to sound anywhere remotely near ‘fine’, but the glare Chief is giving him forces his agreeable answer. Smith takes it, like he does everything, as honesty. Soon enough, Chief and Bart are in a room together, alone. Chief leans over the table. 

“Just tell me what’s going on with him so I can put a stop to this nonsense,” he says. Bart gulps. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Christian organized this achievement for Smith, but I don’t get the point. Is he trying to make up for yesterday? It’s an odd way o do it, if so. He hates helping people.”

Bart shakes like a building engulfed in flames. It’s indiscernible whether or not it’s Chief he’s afraid of. “Listen,” he says, voice cracking, “I am just a pawn. A silly little pawn, of no importance, and you shouldn’t ask me anything because I’m not supposed—er, I mean, I don’t know anything. So let it go, and go home.”

Chief shakes his head. “He’s not going to hurt you if you talk, Bart. Or, if he wants to, we won’t let him.”

“That is not the problem. There are worse things than punishment you know.” The artist shrinks into his seat. “There’s disapproval.” 

Chief stands and puts his hands on he back of his neck, exhaling. Bart raps his fingers on the side of his metal chair. 

“Listen. Christian is trying—in that odd way of his. I cannot assume that his intentions are good, or that what he’s doing isn’t crossing boundaries, or that it is desirable in any way, but whatever your relationship with him is, it’s the first thing he’s cared about in a long time. And that’s all I can tell you, so please stop interrogating me. Just go. Home.”

Go home. Simple instructions from a nerve-wracked source. It’s the only clue he’s going to get. 

Chief storms out of the interrogation room, passes by Susan, and informs her that he’s taking sudden sick leave for the rest of the day. Driving home, he wonders what’ll be waiting for him. He gets to his apartment, expecting the door to already be open, but it’s shut and locked with no sign of attempted break-in. As soon as Chief gets inside, someone knocks behind him. He answers to find Christian.

“Were you . . . just around the corner?” Chief asks, looking up and down the hallway. Christian shrugs. 

“I didn’t want to force my way in, but that meant waiting for you to get home, first. Can I come in?”

“Sure . . . .”

If Christian’s behaviour isn’t enough, Chief is struck dumb the second the criminal takes off his jacket, revealing the outfit underneath. His priest getup is gone, replaced with a blue button-down shirt and badly-knotted tie. Now, Chief notices that Christian’s hair is tamed into a wave of blonde atop his head, and the infamous coke-stache is completely gone. 

“Is there a place I can hang this?” Christian holds out his jacket. Chief stares at the criminal  
dumbly. 

“You’re sober.”

“Oh, Christ, no. You do not want to meet Sober Christian, that guy’s a creep. But I’ll admit, I’m less high than usual. Reluctantly.”

Given no answer, Christian drapes his jacket over the love seat and sits down. Chief takes a spot next to him, but with distance between, like there’s a possibility the criminal will flip and go rabid at any moment. That has to be the explanation for this behaviour, after all; some sort of sickness must be involved. 

He watches Christian more closely: the hint of stubble is still there, as are the moon-like  
craters under his eyes. The underlying man is still there, it’s only that he’s encapsulated himself in this new identity. Chief knows no other way to talk about it: “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m fixing things.” He shrugs. “You told me what was wrong, and now I’m setting it right. Bart’s free, your wonder boy is an accomplished cop, and I,” he gestures over his outfit, “am no longer the Priest. It’s all good.”

Chief shakes his head. 

“I’m only asking you to consider it. Haven’t you wanted to leave? Even for a moment, you must have dreamt about escaping it all. The sickness that is this world and its people, and the horrible things they do. The horrible things *youve* done.” 

He gives Chief a meaningful look, not having to clarify. The cop told Christian about what happened to Smith. The criminal, after pausing, moves closer, placing a hand on the cop’s thigh. 

“Chief, I *know* you know what I’m talking about. Just say yes, and we can leave this behind. Every god-damned bit of it.”

The cop grimaces. “Christian. I can’t.”

The hand on Chief’s leg clenches. “You aren’t even giving it a chance!”

“I’ve already run away once, Christian. Not intentionally. But Smith and I arrived here, and it was as fresh a start a man could ask for. Not only was I free from my past, I was free from the confines of my home’s society. 

“Do you have any idea what life was like for a queer man in the forties? The shame and secrecy I had to endure? When I came here, I saw colour for the first time. I saw my first rainbow pride flags. I believed I was free, finally, after every hell I had to endure. After every lie I was forced to tell about myself. 

“But for all its colour, this world can be just as dirty. My past mistakes are gone, but now I have new ones to account for. Society might be different, but here I am again, in a relationship I have to hide from the world due to the disgust it would cause. Running doesn’t free you, Christian. Not when the mess around you is self-afflicted.”

Christian is silent through the speech. Chief puts his hand overtop the Criminal’s. “I understand the urge to leave, but you have to understand how utterly exhausting and useless it is.“

“Fucking easy for you to say.” Christian pulls his hand away, scowling. “‘Running away is useless’, according to the man who was snatched from his own reality and transplanted. I’d say that’s not a great indicator for how most of these events go. Nothing got fixed because you’re still holding onto your old shit. You picked up your life right where you left off, only difference being the change in scenery, and now you’ve given up hoping for something better.” 

He stands, yelling now. “You keep brooding, keep aching for all of the evil in Riftdale, but you don’t even try to make things better for yourself. You’re with me, after all—we all know why that is. I’m an outlet for you to brew your self-hate within. And why not, right? I’m already a disaster, so how much worse could it get? And now that you’ve made me need you, you get to turn around and pretend you’re on the higher road, but it’s not true. You hate yourself just like I hate myself, Chief! You wanted this catabolic catastrophe of a relationship as much as I did. You’re not allowed to turn around and say you don’t want me. You’re not allowed not to want me!”

He pants, looking down on the man he loves so desperately, feeling his throat close up like it’s trying to implode. Chief looks so pitying, Christian wants to kill him.

“You’re right.”

“What?”

Chief laments, “You’re right that I’ve treated you unfairly—cruelly, even. This relationship isn’t healthy. I’m glad we’ve both realized that.”

“Wait—wait, no. That’s not how this talk is supposed to go.” Christian runs a hand through his hair, turning the blonde wave into a tumultuous sea. “You can’t,” he whines. 

“There’s nothing else to do, Christian. We can’t pretend this has even the possibility of working out. We’ll end up  
killing each other, otherwise. We have to end this.”

“No. No!” Christian laughs. “I take back what I said—I was angry! You know me, I’m  
full of bullshit most of the time. I was upset. Do you want me to admit it, because I’ll admit it; I want you. I need you. And it’s okay that you don’t need me, but don’t do this. Don’t end this. It might be rough, but it’s the only thing I have. You’re—you’re all I have.”

The more Christian hyperventilates, the more Chief forces his breathing to be calm. He’s burning inside, but somebody has to be the stable one here, and God knows it isn’t Christian. Chief speaks through his teeth, “You’re stressed. You’re probably going through withdrawal. Everything’s exacerbated right now, but you need to calm down.”

“Calm down? Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know me.”

“I’m trying to help.”

Christian tries to laugh, but it comes out as a shout. “Help me by shutting the fuck up. Help me by going back in time, unravelling this conversation, and at least *pretending* to love me again.”

Chief pauses. “I am in love with you.”

“But do you love me?”

They stare each other down. Chief can’t speak. For a second, Christian looks victorious, but then his chest deflates. “That’s what I thought. Because who could, right?” He rubs his face. “I—you’re right. I’m going crazy here, I can’t take this. I need to leave.”

“Christian, wait!”

The criminal is out the door before Chief can decide what he’s calling out for: does he have anything left to say, or is he only concerned about what havoc Christian might wreak on the city if left to his own devices?

With nothing left to do, Chief closes his door and stands, lonely, in his living room. Forget Riftdale; who knows what havoc Christian might wreak on himself?

\---

Christian wants to wreak havoc on himself like he’s a forest zoned for clearing. He wants to set himself ablaze, and for his smoke to choke the atmosphere so that something can ever grow in his place. He’ll salt he earth, he’ll pave over everything, he doesn’t care. His romantic life is a festering wound, and the only way to get rid of it at such a developed stage is to saw off the whole limb. 

He’d go back to his hideout to try to gain control of himself, only Bart isn’t there anymore, and there’s nothing more soul-crushing than a truly empty home. He’d get high, but really, what’s the use? His tolerance is so high that it’s impossible to actually escape himself these days. He’d only end up with more energy zipping through his neural pathways; his brain would only become more efficient at hating him. He could look for a new out, because that’s what he does, isn’t it? Flit from drugs to religion to money to love, and now that those avenues have dead-ended, he should go looking for the next distraction. There are always more roads to wander, more places to go . . . . 

Chief had him pegged, back there, didn’t he? Describing the following trail of mistakes and loathing and vitriol and pain, he’s got Christian down to a T. All Christian has done is run. He didn’t realize he’s had his troubles chained to him by the ankle the whole time. 

Now that he understands, he doesn’t think he wants to run, anymore. He’s so far from goodness he’s forgotten its taste, he’s been martyring others in his name for too long. There are no options left. 

Whatever punishments Hell may inflict on him, they’re nothing compared to what he’s inflicted upon himself.


	3. Chapter 3

What does it mean to be a good cop? Smith can answer that easily: you do your best and help whoever you can! That’s the way to be a good anything, after all. Though, if you’re in the mood for extra brownie points, it can help to show up to your workplace early with coffees for all of your fellow employees. 

It’s not the first time Smith has done this. He expertly balances the multiple drink trays along his arms, striding towards the precinct’s entrance, humming a light-hearted tune. When he spots what’s waiting at the front of the building, however, he double-takes and almost drops his load. Almost. Riftdale’s nicest cop regains his grip on the trays in time, because what kind of world would it be if bad things happened to good people? That would be sad and ridiculous. Smith manages to set everything onto the pavement, freeing himself to sprint to the precinct’s doors. 

He recognizes the Priest right away, even without his infamous outfit. The criminal is slumped against the front of the building, head lolled back and propped against the wall, mouth open and eyes closed. Smith is so sure he’s dead. Upon reaching the heaped form, however, the Priest blinks. A pair of bloodshot eyes focus on the cop, then narrow. 

Smith gives a little finger-curl if a wave. “H-hello, Mr. Priest.”

The criminal responds by closing his eyes and leaning back against the doors. When he doesn’t move for a few seconds, Smith creeps forward. “Mr. Priest?”

“Of course it’s you.” 

“I’m sorry, what?”

The Priest rubs his right eye with the heel of his palm, swallows thickly, and looks at Smith again. He’s glaring, but it seems to be more out of tiredness than rage. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore, I suggest you just cuff me and get it over with.”

“Really?”

“What else would I be hanging around here for? Honestly, I thought somebody would come out and find me sooner.” He proffers his wrists limply. “Take me away, officer.”

Smith’s quintessential smile twitches on his face. “Gosh—thank you! I mean, good job, turning yourself in. I mean, don’t worry, everything’s going to work out. Oh, brother,” he laughs, running a hand up through his hair, “you’ll have to excuse me, this hasn’t actually happened before. It’s really exciting.”

“I’m sure you’re having a blast. Can we please get this over with?”

Smith helps the Priest to his feet, then cuffs his arms loosely behind his back—don’t want to make it too uncomfortable, after all. The pair walk into the precinct, Smith carrying his drinks, Christian stepping slowly into the sparsely-populated room. 

The few members on duty freeze when they see the Priest amidst them. Smith grins and tells everyone not to worry. As he and the criminal walk by, Smith handing out beverages to everyone as he goes, his coworkers wonder how this kid was able to rescue a hostage and take down a serial criminal within the scope of two days. 

Smith pulls out a chair by his desk for the Priest. “Now, we’re going to have to process you, and question you in case you have any information related to other cases. But don’t worry! Everything will be cleared up in time, and we can get you on the way to recovery! And also prison. But mainly, focus on the recovery—oh! Hey, Chief!”

Right on time, the world’s best cop (according to Smith) enters the precinct. The Priest turns to look. Chief, normally so composed, almost trips over his own feet. His eyes latch onto the criminal like dual fishhooks. The Priest stares up at him, willingly reeled in.

“Good morning!” Smith says, then places his hands on his hips. “Look at who I found outside. Day’s off to a good start, don’t you think?”

Chief looks away, running his hands along the sides of his slacks like he’s trying to clean them of something. “You—found him?”

“He was waiting right at the doors. Could have walked in, but you know, what’s important is that he’s in here now.” He smiles at the Priest. “Isn’t that right?”

“Sure,” the criminal answers unconvincingly. 

“I—“ Chief looks at the Priest again, grits his teeth, and glances with relief to Smith. “You’re okay with processing him alone?”

“Certainly! You can go do other work if you need to.”

Chief nods and, with a last glance to the criminal, moves to leave. The Priest straightens in his seat. 

“Wait.”

Chief freezes. The Priest shrinks back down, his hands fists in his lap. Even from where he’s standing, Smith can see blood welling up amidst his fingernails. Eyes closed, the criminal pleas, “Please. Just tell me, first—is this good? Am I doing any good?”

“Of course you are!” Smith thumbs his suspenders. “Sure, you’ve made some . . . not-great decisions in the past, but you’re here, now. You’re going to make up for all of that. You’re doing something so good. The goodest thing possible, really!”

The Priest blinks up at Chief. The older cop opens his mouth, then bites his lip. “What Smith said. Honestly, he’s the one you should ask about all this. He’s way better at answering questions than I am.”

Smith grins. “Now, I don’t know about being better than *you*.”

“The kid’s right,” the Priest blurts. “You’re a good cop, Chief. Fuck—you’re a good man, too. Better than you give yourself credit for.”

Smith’s brow furrows. Chief sucks in a breath and reaches out as if he wants to touch the criminal, but he lets his hand fall after a second. He exhales; he nods. 

“Alright. I should get going. Just, try not to be too rough on yourself. Okay?” With those fumbled words of wisdom, he shoves his hands in his pockets and leaves. The further away he walks, the more the Priest sinks into his chair, disassembling like a sweater with a pulled thread. Eventually, the older cop is gone, and the Criminal is practically a puddle in his seat. Once such a feared threat to society, he’s now nothing more than a depression in the future tense, a man who is wearily pessimistic of the rest of his life.It’s incapacitated him as a danger, but it’s damn sad to watch, too. 

“Don’t worry Mr. Priest! You’ll get through this,” Smith assures. The Priest looks to him, eyes like puddles in a parking lot. However, after a moment, he shifts upright in his chair. Just a little; enough to show interest. 

“Let’s get on with it then,” he says. “It’s time to figure out the rest of my life.”

**Author's Note:**

> the rest of it’s will be out soon but i’m tired rn so this is all you get IM GOING TO BESD GOODNIGHT


End file.
